


Diana of Two Seas

by cogarasi



Category: Anne with an E (TV)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Anne Shirley ships Diana Barry/Jerry Baynard, Canon Era, F/M, Post-Season/Series 03, Psychological Trauma, Sexual Content, Slow Burn, This is going to be long, angsty Avonlea kids enter their 20s, some historical accuracy, tried not to be too grimdark though
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-26
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:08:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26125525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cogarasi/pseuds/cogarasi
Summary: Unable to convince her family otherwise, Diana is sent to finishing school in Paris while her friends go on with their lives on Prince Edward Island. It's a whole new world that Diana eventually finds her place in, until tragedy brings her back to Avonlea four years later. There, she finds herself confronted with new perspectives on friends and lovers from both past and present, and what it really means to be Diana Barry.
Relationships: Diana Barry/Jerry Baynard, Gilbert Blythe/Anne Shirley
Comments: 7
Kudos: 71





	1. Chapter 1

It had been four years since Diana had made this journey, albeit the other way around. She thought it would be different this time. It was certain to be! She was only a girl then, headed for a great unknown across the sea that she had never even asked for. This time, as a woman in not only name but also experience, she knew where she was going: she was going home.

She felt the waves sway the floor beneath her feet; that familiar cradle that rocked her to sleep every night aboard a ship not so different from this one.

“Oh look, darling, they've made it absolutely stately in here,” she remembered her mother had remarked. “Isn't it lovely? Certainly much nicer than the ship we were on all those years ago, but I doubt you would remember. An auspicious start to your new life of refinement in Paris, I reckon!”

It was an attempt to cheer her spirits but it didn't work. They had fought terribly all through the weeks leading up to her departure, ever since Diana found out that she received acceptance to Queen's Academy with all her friends, and no one had any fire left in them. What was left to fight about? The words were different each time but the facts remained the same: Diana did not want to go to Paris, but Diana was a Barry, and a Barry lady had “certain privileges brought about by certain duties”, as her mother had put it.

And so, after weeks of hysterics and then the most grave and sullen suppertimes, Diana found herself on an ocean liner in the middle of the Atlantic.

By the time they got to London, she had accepted her fate. There was no way around it now. London was only a brief stop before her final destination, but it may as well have been the end. Avonlea felt hopelessly far away.

It was a strange thing, to meet your Nan for the first time in 15 years. To be fussed and preened over by this small, unfamiliar woman in her pearls and perfumes while playing the role of the perfect granddaughter, but Diana spent that week at her mother's family home playing that part to perfection, with wordless smiles and a mild temperament. It was easy, after a lifetime of playing the perfect daughter. One dress rehearsal after another in preparation for her final role: the perfect wife.

“Thank goodness she did not develop a Canadian farmgirl's homeliness!”

“Of course not, Mother, a Barry daughter could not possibly be homely,” her mother shot Diana an accusatory glance, “no matter what kind of company she keeps.”

“And what kind of company would that be?” her Nan asked, alarmed.

“Never you mind, Mother, what's important is that it will be the right company from now on.”

Diana undertook the final leg to Paris alone. Her mother had spent an unnaturally long time fussing over her hat and hair during their final farewell in London. They were futile attempts against the dockside winds at the ferry port but her mother seemed to not notice or care.

“Diana, I know this is not the future you dreamt of in Avonlea.” It was the first time in weeks that her mother did not sound critical. In fact, she appeared more nervous than angry. “But you will be in Paris, darling, and a larger world awaits. You're a clever girl, certainly cleverer than I was at your age, but a clever girl cannot get on in this world alone. And in any case, you are also a Barry, and a Barry girl shall not have that world be a provincial one. Believe me when I say I understand your loneliness now, my dear, and how much you must miss your dear friends, but there is greater loneliness still for a grown woman.” Diana must have looked unconvinced, because her mother continued, “You will make new friends. You will meet new people, experience new thrills -- yes, even within a realm of propriety that befits a lady.”

“I know, Mother,“ said Diana softly. She had heard all this before but it felt different this time, less like grown-up trickery and more like some grown-up version of truth. She did not know if she believed it, just yet, but she could at least believe in her mother's faith.

“I just want what's best for you Diana.”

She tried her best to believe that too.

* * *

To her surprise, on certain things, her mother was not wrong.

At first it was difficult. The other girls at L'Institut Beaumont did not quite know what to make of her, this New World girl from the Canadian Maritimes. An Acadian, perhaps? That seemed unlikely. Her skirts were too clean and pretty and her French was too proper, although there was still a certain unplaceable something about it. It was not unheard of for a girl from the colonies to be at Beaumont but it was an uncommon choice. Only real Francophiles and nationalists opted for French options like Beaumont when the finishing schools of choice for the international crowd were all in Switzerland.

Despite her uncommon status, Diana learned the ways of her new world quickly, establishing her place in Beaumont's social circles and then Paris high society.

Was it suffocating at times? Yes, it was, and the finishing school curriculum dull as expected, but _Paris!_ Paris was another world entirely. Diana did not think it possible to see new colours and hear new sounds and yet the streets and storefronts of Paris presented such novel sensory delights every day of the week.

Since completing finishing school, she had been staying in the house of a recently married from finishing school, Mathilde Renault. Most of her Beaumont sisters had gotten married in the past few years. It was privately understood that the remaining girls remained unmarried because they were dull or homely, but their numbers dwindled with each passing month, for even the homeliest of young ladies attracted suitors if she were of well enough status (and every Beaumont girl certainly was). 

To her Nan's relief those years ago, Diana was neither dull nor homely, not in Avonlea nor in Paris, but that just made her social circles more suspicious of her continued solitude. There would be occasional talk, yes, but Diana would flash that graceful smile and speak her sweet and gentle words and no one would have the heart to keep a rumour going. It was not that were no suitors. There was always a suitor. Some, Diana would entertain longer than others, but none of them lasted very long, to her parents’ frustration. The current was an English gentleman named Frederick Wright who liked to sojourn in Paris and so far, he was lasting longer than any of the others had. He noticed Diana buying pastries one day and made introduction by way of exclaiming, in English, “Well I’ll be, they really do make the most beautiful girls in Paris!”

He nearly lost his hat when the pretty French girl turned out to be an English Canadian girl from Prince Edward Island.

Such was how well she played her role.

Diana saw this confusion play out again and again on this ship, with many of her fellow passengers not realising that this was not her journey abroad. This was her journey _home_. The latest to become victim to this duplicity was a young Frenchwoman. Diana would see her in the passenger cabins, sometimes alone, sometimes with her husband and two small children. She was a little older than herself, Diana guessed, but not by much. It was the second to last night aboard the ship, when they finally talked.

Her daughter must have been no more than six or seven years of age, and one night she was throwing a tantrum.

“Excusez-moi, Mademoiselle,” the young woman apologised to Diana. “Ma fille Élise est nerveuse. C’est une nouvelle vie dans un nouveau pays pour elle.” Ah, emigrants. The poor thing was nervous, understandably.

“Don't worry Élise,” Diana smiled at the little brown-haired girl, “Canada is a wonderful place that I am sure you will grow to love and call home. I certainly do.”

The inevitable look of confusion followed shortly from the young mother.

“You are an immigrant also? Returning from visiting family in France?”

“Yes, but not from France, from England.” Diana explained in flawless Parisian French, to more confusion. “That is to say, I moved to Canada as a very little girl with my family, from England. But I live in France now. And I'm returning to visit family. In Canada.” For some reason, Diana felt apologetic about the complicated explanation.

“I can never tell with you wealthy folks,” the Frenchwoman laughed. “A rich Frenchman seems to have more in common with a rich Englishman than with little old me!”

Diana blushed, though the remark seemed like neither compliment nor criticism.

“Can you tell my girl here a little more about your Canada, then? I'm sure it would put her mind at ease.”

The little girl looked towards her shyly.

“Well,” said Diana, “what do you want to know?”

“Are there trees?“ the little girl asked.

Diana laughed, “Yes, there are trees. And grass and forests and lakes and rivers. And, I don't know where you will be, but where I come from, there is so much ocean, like nothing else you've ever seen. The air is always fresh and crisp and there is abundant space through which to run and laugh and explore, and places in which to hide and play.”

The girl had stopped crying, enraptured by Diana's words.

“If I live in Canada, will I become a pretty princess like you?”

“Oh but I can see you are already a beautiful princess in your own right! How could anyone not see that?”

“The boys back home make fun of me.”

“Boys don't know a fork from a knife half the time, so don't you listen to them.”

“Okay, now back to bed Élise,” the young mother smiled at Diana appreciatively. “You want to be well-rested when we arrive in Canada.”

She lingered for a quiet moment to herself after her daughter ran back to the sleeping cabins.

“Canada sounds beautiful,” she said, wrapping her shawl tightly around her shoulders in the cool evening air. “Why did you decide to leave?”

“It was not my decision to make.”

The Frenchwoman looked at her appraisingly. Diana was short but stood with such poise that many did not realise until later. Her raven hair was collected neatly under an elegant white-and-mauve hat. Her dress, in similar colours, was simple but not plain, and from its quality anyone could see she was a woman of respectable background.

“Ah,” the Frenchwoman said knowingly. “English, French, Canadian. No matter where you're from, one thing I don't envy about you lot is all the rules and responsibilities that comes with being rich.”

“I have much to be thankful for.”

The Frenchwoman shrugged. “Then what brings you back?”

Diana lowered her gaze. She had been trying not to think about that. It had all happened so quickly. When she settled the arrangements to go back -- and she did so quite expediently, mind you -- everyone thought there would be enough time. Time to create final happy memories and say proper goodbyes. Time that everyone else got, except Diana, who was an ocean apart.

It was the night before her journey when she received the news. Her suitcases were already packed up, ready to be transported for the ocean liner that would take her home to Avonlea.

Diana knew something was wrong as soon as the head housekeeper, normally a stern woman, appeared at her room’s entrance with an expression of pity on her face.

“Mademoiselle Barry, I’ve just received a telegraph from Canada, from your family. Your Aunt Josephine passed from this world last night. They learned of it this morning and ask that you be ready for a funeral.” The housekeeper lowered her head in respect as Diana collected herself from the shock. “My condolences, Mademoiselle.”

Diana looked up at the journeying young mother. “A matter again beyond my control,” she gave a sad smile, “but although the circumstances under which I make this journey are not happy, it is a journey I make gladly. There is comfort in knowing you are going home.”

The Frenchwoman nodded in agreement and together the two women looked out at the setting sun, nearly swallowed whole by the open sea. Tomorrow, an island would rise in its place in a grand gesture of homecoming.


	2. Chapter 2

It was evening by the time Diana reached home. After the ship made its stop in Halifax, she still had to board another ferry to Charlottetown via Port Hawkesbury before the final few hours’ journey to Avonlea. She was grateful for the first familiar face of her trip in the form of Macdonald, the chaperone her parents had sent to accompany her from Charlottetown. A long-trusted manservant of the Barry household, Macdonald was a dignified old bachelor and, Diana couldn't help but notice sadly, getting older yet.

“Miss Barry,” he said as a matter of politesse as he helped her into the carriage, but his slight and restrained smile was full of genuine welcome.

She had forgotten what it was like to travel here, the roads so wide and lonely and the smell of the sea never quite leaving one's nose even when the ocean was nowhere to be seen. On the country road to Avonlea, they passed no automobiles, only others in horse-drawn carriages like their own, making their way back to their respective villages from a day out on the town. (Though there was one adventuresome man on a bicycle.) It was as if Prince Edward Island did not make it fully into the new century the same as Paris did, whose streets were always a hubbub of bicycles, horses and automobiles. In their last correspondence, Diana's mother had mentioned they were considering buying the first automobile in Avonlea, but under the quiet patronage of the setting sun with nary a sound but the _clop-clop_ of horse's hooves against the occasional whisper of a passing breeze, Diana realised she was lucky they had not gone through with the purchase yet, recalling the sounds of motors that punctuated every Paris alley and avenue. She smiled to herself as she remembered her old friend Anne who was once so excited at the idea of Paris that she had asked Diana to take her along, before either of them knew what they stood to lose from such a move. Anne was so sure that everything about Paris could only be most romantical and beauteous (‘and thus a perfect match for you, Diana’), but neither of them could have foreseen the rise of the automobile then. Automobiles running about a city was decidedly _not_ romantical, Diana thought.  
Despite its scenic views, the final journey to Avonlea was exhausting after a transatlantic voyage. By the time they made arrival, Diana was happy to be home less for sentimentality and more for want of a proper bed to rest, on solid land. Her body had spent so long bobbing on a boat and then rocking on a carriage that it’d forgotten what it was like to be still.

“Oh, thank goodness, we were worried you were met with delays and wouldn’t make it back tonight,” was her mother's first greeting when she stepped through the doors.

It was strange how quickly one settled back into old routines in the presence of familiarity. They had not seen each other since that last farewell in England, but mother and daughter found themselves quickly in their old rhythm, hands duelling over the placement of a ribbon or a hat. Guided by her feet alone, Diana went to help herself to a warm chamomile tea in the kitchen, finding everything where she remembered.

Naturally, some things had changed over the years. The curtains in the parlour had been updated and a rug or two renewed — her mother was always keeping up with the latest fashions in Europe — but the most notable change in the house was in its youngest resident.

“Diana!” Minnie May Barry shouted, bounding down the staircase.

“Oh don't, Minnie May, I've been travelling all day and I'm wretched right now,” Diana laughed, peeling her sister off her person. “Oh my, aren't you far too tall now.” To her chagrin, she found her younger sister standing at the same height as herself.

“And still growing,” Minnie May grinned smugly.

“The world's injustices never cease,” Diana groaned.

“Back to bed, Minnie May,” their mother warned. “Your sister is tired and you will have plenty of time to catch up tomorrow. Go on, hurry along.”

“But there's no school tomorrow!”

“Minnie May!”

She always had a talent for talking back to their parents that Diana never quite mastered. Over the years, Diana became privy to several tales of Minnie May’s latest digressions. From her mother’s letters, she learned Minnie May was not diligent about her violin studies, imprecise in her embroidery and always slouching in a most undignified manner. But from the letters from Minnie May herself, Diana knew her sister was popular and well-liked with many friends and admirers at school, and an instinctive judge of character that could only come from the experience of being welcomed into others’ lives.

Her mother was staring at her with a funny expression on her face, though Diana was only drinking tea. “What a fine young lady my daughter has grown into. Paris has done you quite well indeed! Her foundation won’t be as strong as yours, but there is hope for your sister yet!”

Diana smiled weakly, thankful Minnie May was not around to hear the unfavourable comparison. “I should like to rest too, mother, it’s been a terribly long journey.”

“Oh, of course, darling! You go get yourself sorted. You’ll find your room as you left it. Your father insisted we wait until your return before we make any redecorating decisions…”

She appreciated her father’s defence of her childhood bedroom (though she suspected his primary motivation was in reducing her mother’s expenditures more than anything!). She sunk into her bed with relish, thankful for its familiar embrace after all this time. That night, she would sleep a hundred slumbers’ worth of sleep!

* * *

Although her mind had adjusted to being at home again quite quickly, it took several days for her body to catch up. She remembered the feeling well from the journey to London. It was as if the body did not realise it was no longer at sea and had to adjust to the static time and ‘placeness’ of a new locale. Only last time, the newness of it all was enough of a distraction to forget about the exhaustion of travel; now, in the familiarity of home, the ease of the mind just made the fatigue of the body all the harder to ignore. With her midday slumbers, Diana must have spent more hours asleep than awake.

On the morning of her third day back, she received an invitation to tea. It was a welcome event for her otherwise ambient schedule, punctuated only by light meals and naps.

“Give Anne and the Cuthberts our blessings, dear,” her mother said to her before she left for Green Gables while ensuring her hat was on straight. Diana did not need such a reminder, but that was not the point.

The Cuthberts were the Barrys’ closest neighbours, but the nearly twenty-minute walk between them through forest trails and field roads felt incredibly long; she was never out of sight of a building in Paris. The Barry house was tucked away in a quiet part of the woods, away from the heavier trafficked areas near the road, and she was breathtaken by the wilderness of it all which she once took for granted. She wondered if she felt similar awe when she first moved here, but she was too young to remember then. What she did remember were the adventures later, with Anne. These woods were backdrop to a great many play-story of heroism and valour, its trees talented actors that could just as well double as castle towers or dragons. How long ago that was! These trees were the very same as all those years ago, standing exactly where they always stood, but for Diana, there would be no more playing of prince-and-princess amongst them.

When she finally emerged from the woods and reached Green Gables, Diana felt a growing anxiety from deep within her stomach. Her correspondence with Anne had…fallen by the wayside, in a way. They were eager scribes at first, writing each other fervently of their every day like a shared diary whose entries crossed countries and an ocean. Diana learned about the strict governess of Anne’s girls’ boarding house, of Tillie Boulter sneaking a suitor in past watching eyes, of Josie Pye’s courtship with a Toronto banker, of all the books Anne was reading and the ‘positively illuminating experience of higher education’ at Queen’s Academy. Diana treasured those letters dearly — such friendly beacons in an unfriendly new environment — and wrote back to each one with such diligence that the girls at finishing school teased her about her long-distance love affair. It was hard to say if the decline started any particular way, but over time, the letters became less frequent as each girl settled into her new life without the other, until eventually, they hardly wrote at all. Diana could not remember exactly when the last letter was, but was ashamed to realise it had been her turn to write back and never found time for it. The most recent letters were also dull and matter-of-factly: concise reports of health and wellness, _I have tried the most delicious new French pastry the other day_ , _They are connecting all of Avonlea to electricity_ , et cetera. Of course, Anne could not help but write with some flourish even in the simplest of reports, but it was plain to anyone who saw the letters that they lacked the spirit of their earlier correspondence.

She knocked on Green Gables’ old wooden door nervously. It opened at once, and Diana found herself face to face with her old friend.

The first time they had met, Anne had been a scrawny thing in a brown girls’ dress that reflected Marilla Cuthbert’s practical tastes while Diana wore her favourite blue dress with the puff sleeves and frilly pinafore that was the fashion then. It was strange to see the once scrawny Anne in a grown woman’s clothes, in an understated sapphire dress that was common yet pretty and complemented her hair, fiery red as ever, though tamed somewhat underneath a hat worn not especially neatly. Diana was suddenly conscious of her own dress, a sleek lilac garment with fine trim and a matching hat that sat most meticulously on her head.

Anne smiled when she saw her.

“Diana!” 

Diana smiled too — not her practised smile that effortlessly distracted from an uncomfortable moment, but a real, dimpled Diana smile. Anne took a moment to collect herself and said, with more dignity, “Miss Barry, please come in,” but then she cracked into a grin again.

Marilla Cuthbert ran a tight ship at Green Gables, with furniture and trimmings that were practical and home decorations limited to family heirlooms, but Diana always felt like there was something warm and inviting about the Cuthberts’ home compared to her own. Both houses were neat and tidy, but perhaps it was the difference between a home that was tended to by its residents and one that was kept presentable by its staff. 

Marilla made her appearance from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron and bringing with her the scent of apple pie.

“My, my, Diana Barry, how lovely to see you.”

“Hello, Miss Cuthbert,” Diana smiled warmly.

“How nice to have you back in Avonlea, though under terrible circumstances…” Marilla gave her a sympathetic smile. “Josephine was a good woman who took good care of you girls through the years.”

Anne looked at the ground when Marilla said this, and Diana felt heartened by this simple display of sorrow. She had heard countless words of sympathy from those around her since she first found out Aunt Josephine was ill, and she was sure to receive many more now that… Diana could not even think the words to herself. It was different to feel it from Anne, whose commiserate grief was sister to her own.

“Thank you for the kind words, Miss Cuthbert.”

“Well, I’ll leave you two to catch up. There’s apple pie, freshly baked, in the kitchen for you, and a boiling kettle.”

Marilla excused herself and the girls sat themselves at the little table that was perfect for tea. Anne (or was it Marilla?) had prepared a fine setting of teaware and baked goods. There was even the old favourite, raspberry cordial. Anne noticed Diana’s interest in it. “Don’t worry, I made sure to confirm its identity this time.”

“Don’t think that after four years in Paris, my tongue should now worry at the taste of liquor.”

“Diana Barry!” Anne said with mock reproach, “I thought they sent you there to be a _lady._ ” She seemed to notice Diana’s delicate posture and the effortlessly graceful way she handled every piece of the Cuthberts’ finest teaware and sat herself a little straighter.

Diana laughed as Anne filled her cup with the sweet red beverage. No one made her laugh as easily as Anne, but the laughing was so innate to their dynamic that it was like muscle memory. There was no going back from that kind of intimacy with another person; the body cannot unknow what it already knows. 

They blazed through the obvious questions first. Diana detailed her ocean voyage to an enraptured Anne, and Anne filled Diana in on the life of schoolteacher who was delighted to hear about the secret life of her adolescent sister and her friends. They caught up on the most enticing gossip: Ruby Gillis’s on-again, off-again romance with Moody Spurgeon (“I’ve heard that love can be fickle, but it is _nonsense_ ,” said Anne), Prissy Andrews’s marriage to a dashing foreign emissary, Josie Pye’s courtship of a mysterious gentleman caller from Halifax…

“Whatever happened to Gilbert Blythe?” Diana enquired nonchalantly. “It was a shock to hear he never married that English girl after all.”

“Yes, I don’t think Sherlock Holmes himself could figure out that mystery,” Anne replied. “We have kept up a casual correspondence over the years, but he has never deigned to share the reason why. I’ve always thought there was certain to be a very compelling reason for him to go to Toronto instead for him to have sacrificed such a _grand_ opportunity. Could you imagine, Diana? You could have had a familiar face alongside you in Paris all this time! But no, perhaps there was something significant to him about the city of Toronto, or perhaps the university? In his letters he described the most interesting lectures and people from all over, and bustling roads with _electric_ _streetcars_ that run through the city! Oh, but I’m sure that is not very interesting to you at all, is it? It is still no Paris, after all. Nonetheless,” Anne continued in her quickfire way, “Gilbert seemed quite… _fulfilled_ in Toronto, and surrounded by opportunity. So it is most strange that he has returned to Avonlea to return to work under Dr Ward again. Bash has been getting on quite well by himself managing the Blythe-Delacroix orchard with his mother, so there was no need there, unlike me; I could not bear to go on to Redmond College since Matthew’s been in poor health so of course I _had_ to return. Speaking of the Delacroixs, you must see baby Della, she is all grown up now and incredibly adorable, I almost wish I was teaching the lower school…”

Gilbert Blythe, back in Avonlea? Diana wondered if Anne had more feelings about that than she was including in conversation right now but did not pry. That was not the kind of information they had shared with each other in the past couple of years, and Diana did not want to consider too deeply if that was indicative of a growing distance between Anne and Gilbert or Anne and herself.

Perhaps Anne did feel some sort of way about being asked about Gilbert Blythe in spite of Diana’s feigned indifference, because she then asked, “So tell me more about this Frederick Wright of yours? Is he _Mr. Right_?” Anne giggled.

Ah, so Diana had mentioned him in her last letter, then. That was more than five months ago, she realised — had she really known Frederick Wright that long?

“Well, I have not committed to anything insofar as him being _mine,_ ” Diana said. “He’s an Englishman, which my parents like, and a patron of the arts, which they are less enthused about, but in any case he’s a respectable fellow from a respectable family.”

“Is he handsome?”

She stopped to imagine his face. Frederick was a man of about thirty, with pale blue eyes and sandy hairs that were starting to thin around his forehead in a way that made him look stately rather than aged, and whose cheeks were always pink in the summer sun. He was not a beautiful man, but perhaps a handsome man by some definition.

“He is handsome,” Diana finally decided.

Anne only raised her eyebrows at this response that offered so little, left to her own wild imagination.

To a stranger, the easy conversation between the two young women could certainly be seen as the fast rekindling of longtime friendship, but it became quickly apparent to both of them that it was not the same rapport they once knew. What was difficult about a friendship were the parts that were work. The most effortful openings of the soul that are too fearsome to bear alone so you risk the undertaking with another. 

Notably absent from their conversation was the subject of Aunt Josephine, but she hung in the silences between them, between Avonlea and Paris and Gilbert and Frederick Wright, daring each girl to be brought up, but neither would. Diana could see pain plainly on Anne’s face, though, even as she was recounting Minnie May’s latest tale of misadventure; her friend never was good at hiding her emotions.

The orange sun was hanging threateningly low in the sky, signalling time for Diana’s leave. She thanked Anne (and, on her way out, Marilla as well) for the afternoon tea with a practised formality that caught even herself off guard.

It was strange to see Anne again after all this time. Diana noticed many things about her for the first time: How lively was she handling a teaspoon! How unbridled was her laugh! There was an unfamiliar distance between them, but perhaps it was to be expected after so long. How does one compete with the length of an ocean, after all? But it was an altogether pleasant meeting nonetheless, like draping a childhood blanket that you suddenly realise is oh so small but still warm and soft.

These warm thoughts comforted Diana as she walked past Green Gables’s fields, where she was met with the kisses of the late summer air. Evenings were pleasantly cool this time of year, the gentlest of reminders of the cruel Canadian winter yet to come. She shivered in anticipation when she saw a man at the edge of the woods, walking towards Green Gables slinging firewood over his shoulder. Tall and lean and dark-featured, there was something familiar about him even at a distance.

Then he approached, and her whole body flushed in recognition.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who's shown interest in my little story so far and apologise it's taken so long for me to update. I have a lot planned out but got hit with a lot of work recently and haven't had time to write. Please look forward to more to come! There is a lot I want to explore with our Diana Barry. :)


	3. Chapter 3

The dreams started a few months into Paris. She fell into a routine. She made friends. She was no longer thinking of Avonlea every night before bed — in fact, she was not thinking much of Avonlea at all — so the first dream was a startling vision.

In the dreams, she would be kissing him, under the tree where they used to meet. To be clear, _she_ was kissing _him_ , lips yearning and hands grasping at his body. It was just like she remembered, on those days when they would meet surreptitiously after school. She had felt so hungry then, and wondered if other girls felt these same insatiable feelings. His boy-body was thrillingly hard and firm but his lips were soft, always letting her lead, and his hands, although toughened from labour, always gently stopped her from getting too carried away. Just as he had done so many times in the real Avonlea, he would be the first to pull away. In Avonlea, he would stop and kiss her one final time — a sweet peck on the cheek whose invisible warmth she could safely bring home. In the dream, he was no different, but every time Diana sought to get a look at his face, there was nothingness, and then his body was nothingness, and then she would wake up, heart racing. The first time it happened, the shock of it all awakened her roommate.

“Diana?” came a worried whisper. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, Mathilde, go back to sleep.”

The dream paid another visit a couple of weeks later, and again after that. It no longer caught Diana by surprise, only slightly disturbing her from her slumber, but they were nonetheless vexing; it was as if she had brought along with her a ghost from Avonlea.

Over time the dream became less frequent, as well as less vivid, like a memory of a memory. She no longer felt the fiery desires of her teenage self directly through each dream, but she dreamt the shadow of that feeling. She no longer saw his every lash, felt the warmth in his chest or smelled the sweet grassy scent in his hair. In fact, she was starting to have a hard time picturing him at all, but the dream had played out so many times now its plot and characters were now obvious.

He was always his teenage self, even as she continued to grow into a young woman in reality. She was never allowed true glimpse of his face but it was simply known — as things sometimes are in dreams — that they were unmoved by time. To see the boy, now a young man, of her dreams like this was like seeing the full brightness of day in the middle of the night. Shocking, blinding, perverting the normally real into the unreal. (Or in this case, the normally unreal into the real?) She took in his presence before her: no longer the lanky farmboy she once knew but now a lean and muscled labourer, his dark hair spilling out from beneath his hat and falling messily into his eyes. It was said that girls bloomed sooner than boys sprouted and Diana could now see what was meant by that. Unlike Anne, who had felt much like her girlhood self in different clothes, there was no mistaking that the Jerry who stood before her was a man.

She could not read his expression as their gaze met. He looked surprised, perhaps, but less surprised than she herself felt in the moment. His dark brow was slightly furrowed and his eyes seemed questioning, framed by those long lashes. She found herself wondering if he still smelled the same, if he was as warm as she remembered.

“Monsieur Baynard,” she greeted him nervously. “J’espère que vous allez bien?”

They had not parted on good terms, for which she was responsible. She took no pride in her actions, but before she had a chance to feel anything about it — sadness, guilt, regret, relief? — she found herself whisked away to Paris, where everything that happened with Jerry Baynard may as well have been a dream.

If he bore her any resentment now, he did not show indication of it.

“Diana, t’es revenue.”

Were she a true Parisian, the informality with which he addressed her would have been a shock, but she knew better than to be scandalised or excited; it was simply the way folks spoke here.

“Yes, I arrived a few days ago.” She switched to English, suddenly feeling self-conscious. French was their secret language back then, an unexpected commonality and her private key into his world. Now it only posed questions whose answers were too provacative to think about. English felt neutral and safe in comparison, keeping questions of distance and intimacy in the shadowy edges of their interaction, easier to ignore.

He did not seem to think anything of it and followed suit. They used to switch between the two back then as well, after all.

“I’m sorry about your Aunt Josephine.”

It was the polite thing to say but Diana knew he meant it. He did not have to put on gentlemanly airs to be gentle or kind.

“Thank you. You look well. Here, I mean, at Green Gables.”

“Yes, the Cuthberts have always been good to me.”

A silence filled the space between them, each waiting for the other to speak. Finally, the interruption of a quiet breeze, and Diana spoke.

“Well, I must be going now. It was nice to see you, Jerry Baynard.”

That was the polite thing to say, but she meant it too.

* * *

It was the first supper the Barrys had together as a family since Diana’s return. The Barrys ate well by Avonlea standards for they were not true country people. Jane, the housekeeper, was hired from the mainland and skilled in English and French cuisines. Growing up, Diana had found her cookery fanciful yet tasty, so she was surprised to find the night’s meal of lamb and potatoes simpler than she remembered. Though it was her sister’s favourite and she was wolfing it down with great zeal while recounting some happening at school.

“Minnie May, some decorum please!” her mother scolded.

“But Mother, we’re at _home_ ,” she protested.

“Not an excuse, and elbows _off_ the table, please.”

She shot Diana a look, either in accusation or commiseration, she was not sure.

“As I was saying,” Minnie May continued loudly, “everyone is saying the flower was from George Sanders, but Lucy is certain it was in fact from Ryan O’Grady.”

“From that family that just arrived from Ireland?” Their mother sounded alarmed, “You will not be fraternising with them!”

Minnie May rolled her eyes likes she was missing the point, “Mother, I wouldn’t marry a boy with such big ears.”

“You’re far too young to be thinking of marrying anyone,” their father grumbled.

“I thought the Catholics had their own school,” their mother continued.

“Any girl would prefer it was from George Sanders. Not only are his ears are of a perfectly respectable size, he’s had quite the growth spurt over the summer break…”

“Isn’t the schoolhouse an awful long way from their side of town?”

“I don’t know.”

The dinner table fell into silence as they could not find accord on any particular topic. It was not uneasy nor fully comfortable, simply familiar. The familiar soundscape of silverware clink-clinking against china plates, her father’s quiet grunts of satisfaction at a particularly delectable bite, her mother’s dainty little gulps of water. Like the smell of one’s home, there was something stifling about eating with one’s family that Diana had never noticed before, or had perhaps forgotten in her time away.

Mealtimes with the Renaults always felt like a special occasion. In fact, many were well and truly special occasions, as Monsieur Renault was a young star of a politician, a role which frequently required his wife to play hostess to Parisian high society or otherwise accompany him to some event or the other. Diana herself was invited to sit in on some such functions. Mathilde enjoyed her company and, she suspected, hoped to introduce her to some of France’s most eligible bachelors. Diana had never spoken with politicians before. They spoke of ideas she could not understand, mentioning with impressive familiarity exotic-sounding names and foreign locales she had only read about in books. The only people she had ever known to speak in such a way were Anne and some of Aunt Josephine’s friends. But these men in politics reminded Diana more of her father and his world of businessmen, traders, and investors. Perhaps this most masculine quality lent a real weight to their words. These lofty ideals were real plans to be executed, and these men in their smart suits and tall hats were going to put them into action.

She could only nod and smile in these discussions, which seemed to suit them just fine. She thought of Anne at such times, who would surely have something to say on such topics. These men would not like her with all her words and ideas, Diana thought, and she revelled at the idea.

“How is Frederick doing?” her mother asked.

Diana had informed her family about him about two letters ago. She did not deign to divulge every detail of her life abroad, but some things felt too great to conceal. In any case, it turned out that this was not something that could have been kept from her family even if she wanted to. Frederick was the nephew of some lord in London whose sister-in-law met with Diana’s second cousin for tea. Or some such connection. It was hard to keep a secret in Avonlea, where the whole town congregated across two churches every Sunday, but that word could travel so easily across the Atlantic by way of the English Channel was astonishing.

“It’s a shame we couldn’t meet the fellow this time around,” said her father.

“Yes, and then you could have had a proper chaperone on your voyage home.”

“It was quite all right, Mother, I was certainly better prepared for it than when I made the same trip at sixteen.”

It was the subtlest of complaints; her mother showed no sign of offence.

“Oooooh, I would have loved to meet your Freddy,” Minnie May cooed. “You hardly tell me anything about him.”

“He’s not a boy, Minnie May, no one calls him Freddy,” their mother chastised.

This was true. Diana simply called him Fred.

In truth, he had been keen to accompany her on this trip, and she was the one who insisted otherwise. She had a strong feeling he was intent on marrying her soon, and this meeting would have been the first step in that process. It was not too soon to consider, given the circumstances. She was plenty eligible at twenty years and their families already knew of each other despite the geographical distances. If he were to ask for her parents’ blessings right now she was certain they would only be too eager to give it. The thought filled her with trepidation, but perhaps that was normal for any young woman’s first courtship with serious matrimonial considerations…She cast _that_ thought aside and simply told him no, meeting her family for the first time against the backdrop of a funeral was too bleak an introduction, to which he relented, acquiescent to the idea that talks of marriage amidst death would not be preferable. (Or so Diana imagined was his reasoning.)

“Remember to write to him, Diana, we can’t have him forgetting about you.”

“He is not so forgetful as that, I should hope.”

“Men are all forgetful, dear. Especially unmarried men.”

Mr Barry averted his eyes as if to renounce participation in this conversation, but his lack of a defence for his fellow man expressed something that felt like agreement nonetheless. Diana wondered briefly what kind of unmarried man her father was. A time before both Minnie May and herself and before this land and this side of the world. It was Aunt Josephine who first lured him to the New World, and her mother, though always genteel, had never quite forgiven her for that. It was the one little faultline in their marriage from which all others stemmed, Diana realised from piecing together common themes to their fights over the years.

Yet on most days there was harmony enough. She knew it could be worse. Since entering society, Diana had learned that some men could be truly terrible as both husbands and fathers, and her own father was far from it. She thought of poor Louise de Tramcourt, whose mild-mannered beau proved to be a mean and confining husband.

Fred, who could be bold but was always courteous and charming, did not seem capable of such cruelty. But how was one to know? Some men bore their meanness nakedly while others did not make their true nature known until well after securing a woman for himself, and could prove meaner still. She remembered her old classmate Billy Andrews and wondered if he was married, and if so, if he treated his wife as poorly as Monsieur de Tramcourt did her friend. Perhaps there was some wisdom in her mother’s categorical distrust of unmarried men.

Diana had, in fact, been planning on writing her unmarried man, wanting to communicate her safe arrival to Prince Edward Island, but to hear it from her mother made her less keen to do so. She liked Fred well enough, and her family had known of him for some time now, but there was something about discussing him in their physical presence that stirred impatient and ungracious feelings within her.

“I’m only to be here for the month, but yes, I shall post him.”

“Will you write about me?” Minnie May interjected.

“And why would I do such a thing?” Diana teased.

“Because I’m your _sister_. Does he have any brothers?”

“You have plenty of suitors already, I hear. Ones more suited to your age, I might add.” Diana was grateful to steer the conversation away from her own personal life. Minnie May was of an age where boys were confounding but simple; matters of love and romance were merely gestures mimicked from books and the complicated adults who wrote them. When any boy from school could potentially be one’s knight in shining armour but none were up to the task so you donned the helmet yourself for your best friend and that was plenty satisfying.

* * *

That night, Diana prepared to write a letter. Electric lamps had been installed in the Barry house for a while now but she lit the candles at her desk out of habit. The moon was full and bright and lent its powers as well. She sat for a moment at the blank page in moonlight blue and candlelight orange, unsure what to write. _Dearest Fred._ The most natural beginning. But what she wrote next was not by her own design; the pen nib glided across the page as if by its own free will and her own hand merely holding on throughout its journey.

_I have missed you and I am sorry._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies to everyone who's been waiting for this update. I've had to juggle writing with a lot of other things in October and this story has become my baby that I really want to get right! This makes certain passages really difficult to write as I try and figure out how everything fits in with the greater story and what's to come. Maybe I need to be less precious about this, but in any case, I don't plan on abandoning this! Thank you for your patience with each update. Reading everyone's comments has been so nice, though I think I screwed up something with uploading this chapter and ended up deleting comments on Chapter 2 by mistake! :'(


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